


An Act of Kindness

by Captain_Novak_454895



Category: Bastille (Band), Supernatural
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Developing Friendships, Homeless Castiel (Supernatural), Inspired by Bastille (Band), M/M, Popular Dean Winchester, Wild World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Novak_454895/pseuds/Captain_Novak_454895
Summary: Hey Y'all,Welcome to my very first posted piece of fanfiction! Happy reading :)Cpt Novak





	An Act of Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Y'all,  
> Welcome to my very first posted piece of fanfiction! Happy reading :)  
> Cpt Novak

“An act of Kindness// Is what you show to me// It caught me by surprise in this town of glass and ice// Kindness, so many people pass me by// But you warm me to my core and you left me wanting more”  
\- An Act of Kindness, Bastille

There comes a time in every man’s life where he must stand up for himself and his beliefs in order to live a fulfilling existence on this earth, at least this is what he told himself that deceitfully calm evening, when he stood on his own two feet for the very first time, and was only struck down for his efforts. He knew that his deeply religious, narcissistic, bigoted Uncle would never have accepted his truths, but he at least thought he would act the civil and just Pastor that the rest of the community thought to be so humble and kind (even though he knew this wasn’t the case behind closed doors). It is as a result of this absolute, unadulterated hatred and disgust from his remaining family members that he finds himself here, under the muted amber glow of a hazy street lamp, huddled in a small alcove in a narrow alley just off the main street through town. He looks up at the beclouded darkness above him; it will rain tonight. Pulling the loose blanket tighter and closer around his shoulders he breathes slowly, deeply, trying to pull the last few shreds of hope he could sense deep within himself together by his few remaining spindles of bravery. 

He closes his eyes. He sleeps. It rains.

 

Dean would say he’s a pretty average teenager, loving Mom, tense relationship with his Father, annoying sasquatch for a brother. His friends are quietly caring and loudly brash, ensuring comfort in laughter and fun whenever they spend time together, providing a much-needed reprieve from the struggles stemming from the everyday woes of a teenage boy. He even gets a decent amount of pocket money from his parents (that’s if he does his chores). Dean believes that he is loved and cared for and that he in turn shows the same care and attention to the people that matter in his life. However, he is naïve in his belief that this is every child’s experience of family, and perhaps this is why he doesn’t notice him at first.   
Fat droplets fall heavily from the lip of Dean’s parka hood, contributing to the ever-increasing flow of rainwater across the subtly sloped hallway towards the lockers on the left side of the entrance hall. He drops his hood unceremoniously and runs cold fingers through his damp hair, making it stick up a little more than perhaps intended, before waving goodbye to his brother and setting off down the corridor towards the huddle of people he had just heard calling his name. Concentrating on avoiding the expanding mass of water on one side of the hall, he joins the bottleneck of students attempting the same venture to prevent having damp socks for the rest of the gloomy school day. In his haste to meet his friends, and due to his temporary hydrophobia, Dean fails to spot the boy that was crouching in the middle of the crowded area seeming to reach into the incriminating puddle to retrieve something. The boy was balancing precariously on the balls of his feet, therefore when met with the sizeable mass and velocity of Dean’s legs, he couldn’t help but topple over towards the water. However, before he could complete his inadvertent dive, a hand shot out to grab the scruff of his collar behind his neck, yanking sharply so that he falls backwards into his assailant/saviour. Dean crouches to the boy’s level all set to apologise profusely and offer him a hand, but as soon as he looks into his soft sapphire eyes showing such surprise and uncertainty, he finds that all speech leaves him. The two stare at each other for what feels like whole minutes, but must have been mere seconds, until the boy breaks their gaze by flailing to grab a dripping bag from the waters-edge, supposedly his original target, and scrambling to his feet, unwisely following an escape route the he would choose to regret later that evening when his soggy feet would begin to freeze. Dean stays crouched where the boy had left him, friends temporarily forgotten, unable to stop staring at the corner the boy’s tattered trouser leg had just disappeared around.

The next time Dean sees boy is the following day during English class; he had never noticed him before. Now he couldn’t tear his intrigued gaze from the unruly mahogany hair, the crumpled once-white shirt, the faded jacket that is splitting at the seams. But it isn’t just the obvious that Dean notices, it’s also the smear of ink that stains his jaw from where he lifts his pen to his mouth when deep in thought, but misses. The smudge of charcoal black across his fingertips, a tell-tale sign of the hours he spends in the art classrooms. The deep purpling shadow that disappears beneath the boy’s collar, an echo of trauma not usually made visible to others, each small round mark threatening to tell a story the boy strives to keep secret. The boy’s hands are steady, his legs still, his breathing calm, a portrayal of the supposedly collected young man that seeks to blend into the background and stay unnoticed. But his eyes betray what he really feels; a deep ocean of anxiety, a sea of fear and loneliness, a raging storm of determination, and the tiniest spark of hope. Dean watches him, studies him. For the first time he doesn’t just look, he sees.

Dean sees when the teachers catch the boy after class, calling his name softly and speaking to him kindly. The boy never looks them in the eye, he always turns away.   
He sees when the boy is late to English class, when he turns up red-faced and panting with exertion. Dean knows he went out of his way to avoid sharp-tongued harassment and derogatory heckling. He’s heard the rumours too, he just doesn’t care as much as those others seem to.  
He sees when the boy turns up to homeroom soaked to the skin and shivering, watches as no one offers him a seat near the warmth of the heaters. He knows he would’ve declined it anyway, that’s just who he is.  
He sees how the days turn into weeks, and how the boy’s hair grows longer and messier, his clothing more dishevelled, stained by water and grit and dirt. Dean wonders why he can’t clean his clothes, can’t ask his parents to buy him a coat or at least an umbrella…  
Dean has been seeing, but it is only now that he understands.

 

He trudges through the main doors early in the morning, steeling himself for another day of resilience. His locker was situated upon the previously peninsular isle along the left side of the corridor that had been isolated by the torrent of rainwater accompanying the thunderous storms that had graced them several weeks prior, therefore anything he had chosen to store at the bottom of the locker (i.e. half of all his worldly possessions) was left either beyond repair or severely damaged, especially as most of them had been books. He had cried that night, mourning the loss of the only escape he had from his now pitiful existence, art and stories. His locker is dry now, the contents safe as winter approaches and rain turns to sleet which turns to snow, snow being an altogether far less invasive form of precipitation.   
The boy sighs as he reaches his locker, twists the knob all the way to the left then back two clicks to the right, before wrenching the clanking metal door open. He only plans to grab his washbag before heading to the bathroom to attempt to tidy up a little, but as the door swings open his outstretched hand falters and he stops in his tracks. He blinks slowly, momentarily frozen in disbelief. Cautiously, for it has not been unknown for his regular antagonists to attempt to infiltrate what little privacy he has left, he lets his fingertips brush against the soft fabric of the garment neatly folded in his locker. He swivels around, eyes peeling every hiding spot in the corridor surrounding him, for he knows them well, then upon seeing no sign of his benefactor turns his gaze back to the contents of his locker.  
Calmly the boy pulls the item of clothing from his locker, the tan material strong as it slides through his nimble fingers, the quality immediately apparent despite the small holes in the hem. With now shaking hands, he lifts the garment by the collar so that it unfolds before him, and to his surprise several objects fall from within the folds of fabric. Bending to retrieve the items, he collects a pair of what looks like hand-knitted gloves, two matching hats and a scarf in a deep navy that feels warm and soft to the touch. He is trampled by a sudden and unfamiliar feeling of warmth and gratitude, the emotion seeming to glow deep inside his chest until he feels it radiate outwards and he feels lighter. Is this happiness? He’s almost forgotten what it feels like.  
He also gathers up a small slip of paper, which he proceeds to unfold with as much care as if it were plated with gold and studded with jewels. The note reads:  
‘I hope this helps you stay warm and dry. Your friend, D.W’  
Castiel smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> So my plan is to write one short ficlet inspired by each track on the album Wild World by Bastille to show my love for both SPN and the awesome band! Fingers crossed!!


End file.
